PEGGY-IN-THE-RAIN
showed the nearing city. He pointed it out. "We're getting close to home, Peggy."
"Where morning lives," she murmured.
"Shall we turn back? There's a long night ahead, dear. Will you come with me?" His voice fell pleadingly, "We'll go back, dear, with the moon and the breeze and the stars. Sweetheart, it is settled, isn't it? Then come with me, Peggy dear. Let's—face the morning together."
She shook her head. "No, not—yet," she answered. "I've got to be sure. I couldn't bear to make a mistake. When the morning comes I want to—to be able to face it with a smile and not—hide from it! You see, don't you?"
"But you do love me, sweetheart. You've shown me that. You've confessed it a dozen times, Peggy-in-the-Rain. Come to me, dear."
"I almost—could," she answered ponderingly.
"And so it must be that I—love you. Only—if it should prove to be just—something else! It isn't that, is it? Oh, I couldn't stand it if it were!"
"It isn't, dear, it isn't! You do love me, just as I love you; and that's better than anything in the world, Peggy; with all my heart and soul!"
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